Rumors of Peace (28 page)

I
ROSE EARLY
and studied an hour before school. I took books with me into the bathroom and would have taken them to the dinner table if it had been allowed. Dad and Mama said I should slow down, I was an extremist. But I was not. An extremist would not take time off two evenings in a row, and last evening I had written Peter, and this evening I was writing Helen Maria.

                
I have been very busy studying [I told her]. I don't think education is a solution to anything, but it is worth looking into. There isn't much to tell, except that I've been studying. Of course there is the election coming up, and I hope President Roosevelt will be reelected even if his enemies say he looks sick and will not last long. He certainly does not look sick to me, just elderly, and many elderly people last a long time, look at your grandmother. I see his enemies also call him a Communist because he helps poor people. He must abhor rich capitalists like Doris Duke and be working against them, that is entirely to his credit and I feel the same way. For a while I thought I was against America and it was a weird feeling, but now I see I am just against everything that's wrong with it, but it's still a weird feeling. However, you must face facts, such as the Negro sharecroppers in the South
whom I have been reading about in
Time
magazine, and even the conditions that prevail here in Mendoza where everything is different down by the cannery where my friend Eudene, the erstwhile La Grande Horizontale, lives. But I will not bore you with the obvious.

                
Do you cherish any hope for the United Nations? I think that it is a premature organization, to say the least, but well intentioned. We discussed the subject in Social Studies. Our social studies teacher recommends outside reading in government and politics, which reminds me may I ask a favor: since Egon's field is political science he could advise me on what books to read, so could you send me his address so I could dash him off a note? I am anxious to get a good grade in Social Studies. In fact I must get back to it now, so I will sign off prematurely with hearty regards.

Suse

The mornings were like cut glass. The big dry hills, burned off in patches during the summer, stood gold and black against a sky of purest blue. The sidewalks were cool under your shoe soles, and here and there the fruit from a fig tree had fallen and splattered during the summer, slowly congealing in a hard crust that now gave off a cold winy smell as you passed. There was a wind moving high in the air, and the fronds of the tall palm trees rustled with a sound like sand sifting. It was going on three years since Pearl Harbor now. Two weeks ago General MacArthur landed in the Philippines. He had said, “I will return,” and he had. It was one of the few things that anyone ever said that came true. Yet even with this triumph, the papers concentrated on the European front. It was because the Pacific war was so spread out that it would take a long time yet to reach Japan; but in Europe distances were smaller, and headlines could sound more encouraging. Even if the enemy still had us stuck in Belgium and Holland.

Helen Maria took her time answering, then scribbled a few lines on a postcard. She was up to her ears in work but would write more fully later. She was glad Roosevelt had won and glad that I was studying
hard, and she was sure Egon would be happy to help me, and there, printed clearly at the bottom, was his address, sending a burst of warmth through me.

It sounded as if she hadn't seen him lately, or else she would have asked him. It sounded as if they had finally broken up. I hoped she wasn't taking it too hard, but the note sounded cheerful enough. There were plenty of other fish in the sea, after all.

I sat down immediately and wrote “Dearest Egon,” but it was too intimate. Then I tried “My dear Egon”, but it was too formal, and “Dear Egon” was too dull. Putting the salutation aside, I asked about the books, but after that everything got knotted up and an hour later I threw my pencil down in disgust.

Every evening I returned to the letter, but the more I worked the more knotted it became. Finally I was forced to put it away because of tests.

The cut-glass mornings disappeared. I walked to school in tule fog, listening to the foghorns muffled and ghostly, like the dead sailors' voices rising from the bay. Gradually you became aware of dim figures walking along, and then suddenly you were in a glare of electric light, lockers banged, feet hurried, and you stood still for a moment, as if coming out of a dream.

I liked these fogged silent days; they made it easier to concentrate on your work, pushed out everything else. Dumb Donny had taken to snapping his ruler on my rear end whenever I bent over the water fountain, but this attention passed into the fogged silence; so did the interesting sight of Mr. Lewis and Miss Petain chatting openly together in the hall; and so did Peggy, who stopped to tell me my hair was beginning to look better. There were only the tests I was studying for, and Egon's letter waiting to be finished, and the fog.

On November 18 General Patton's Third Army crossed the German frontier. And my tests were returned with marks ranging from B to B minus. I felt suddenly happy and relieved about everything, except for Egon's letter.

I couldn't get the tone I wanted, a mixture of passion not too forward and brilliance not too bombastic. It always came out like the worst
kind of showoff essay mixed with mushiness. Through the following week I struggled off and on with the thick heap of scratched-out, question-marked, thumb-smudged pages; then it was my birthday, and I said I didn't want a party because I had too much studying, which was true. Mama told me again that I went to extremes, and Dad agreed; first I never studied at all, and then I did nothing but study. Wasn't there a golden mean? I meant to get into the golden mean very soon, I said, but right now I was pulling myself up by the bootstraps because I was sunk down so far. And then it occurred to me that maybe they were right, after all, that I was an extremist because only an extremist would have gotten sunk down so unbelievably far. What a lot they had to contend with, I thought, as the three of us sat at the dining-room table with birthday cake and hot chocolate; an extremist was probably not easy to live with; an extremist plunged down to rock bottom or shot high in the air, it was always all or nothing at all, and it was true of me because I felt it inside, that sudden whipping high or smashing low, and it was no fun for me to live with, so why should it be for them? And as we sat there, eating and sipping our chocolate and talking, I was struck by something, by the absoluteness, the trueness of my parents' faces, of those eyes and lips whose every nuance was carved so deeply, so dependably into my life; I felt at that moment an almost painfully deep sense of love for them, and it seemed that this birthday party, the smallest and quietest of them all, would be the one that I would always remember.

I was fourteen. Walking through the fog the next morning, I carried a purse, my birthday gift. I had long fought against having a purse, purses seemed cumbersome, but then I had changed my mind. A purse would be a good thing, a shoulder bag you could just sling on. In it you could carry your pencil, pencil sharpener, handkerchief, jackknife, candy bars, even a pack of cigarettes as Eudene did, and especially Egon's letter. It would be a long letter, his handwriting would be clear and firm, and he would probably use blue ink.

But how could he answer a letter he had never received? When I got home that afternoon, I tore up all the pages I had written and started over again, determined to send the result no matter how it sounded.

            
Dear Egon,

                
Helen Maria sent me your address because I wrote and asked for it. My social studies teacher recommended outside reading in politics and government, and since that's your field maybe you could recommend some good books for me to read.

                
It's very foggy here, is it in Berkeley? I like the fog, but summer is still my favorite season. I'm studying a lot right now because I will confess that I was not a good student but now I want to catch up. What you said about the Jews in Berkeley started it, I got interested in history and now I realize there is a lot to be figured out about mankind, even though I don't believe it can be figured out. But I believe you should try anyway.

                
Isn't it terrific that the Allies have smashed into Germany and maybe the war will not be so long in ending now? But maybe I shouldn't mention smashing into Germany because you are a German as well as being a Jew. I know it is complicated, as you mentioned. It was also complicated what I said in Berkeley about Berlin being bombed. I only meant because it is the capital and Hitler is there. I hope the bombing will soon stop everywhere and that your house will be all right and your two brothers also. What do you think about the United Nations? We discussed it in Social Studies, and everyone believed it would end war for good. I would sure like to think so too, but I'm afraid it is more like poetry.

                
I am looking forward to winter when it rains and thunders, it is inspiring, but summer is still my favorite season. I hope that you are in good health and enjoying your studies, and I will thank you very much if you will please send me a list of those books.

Sincerely yours,

Suse

It read plain, plain. No brilliance, and no passion either, and I had wanted so badly to send him my soul. But if I started rewriting, it would never reach the mailbox.

D
EC.
1:

Funeral Notices

                       
Pelegrino, Mario—in San Ramon, November 29; adored son of Anna Pelegrino and the late Franco Pelegrino; loving brother of Ezio Pelegrino; devoted nephew of Sergio Borsanti; a native of Mendoza, aged 17 years.

                       
Rosary Sunday evening at 8 o'clock Harmon & Co., 1124 Sanchez St., Concord. A Mass of Christian Burial will be offered Monday at 9
A.M.
at St. Monica's Church, followed by interment at Holy Cross Cemetery.

Monday morning, while Mass was being said for Mario, Miss Petain announced that she was no longer to be addressed as Miss Petain but Mrs. Lewis. We stared at her face, which was extremely red and embarrassed but happy; it took a few moments for the words to sink in; then a chorus of congratulations filled the room.

In algebra class, while Mario was being buried, Mr. Lewis took us through our lessons without a word concerning the great change in his life. I began to wonder if Miss Petain had made up the story—how terrible for her, how humiliating. And as the hour drew to a close and Mr. Lewis remained as hard and sour as ever, I became certain that Miss Petain had lost her marbles. Then, just before the bell rang, a
girl gave a nervous cough and stood up from her desk.

“Mr. Lewis, on behalf of the class I would like to congratulate you on your marriage to Miss Petain in Room Fourteen that we just heard about, and we all wish you much happiness and prosperity.”

I waited apprehensively, but a touch of pink appeared in the hard, blocky cheeks; the mouth unclamped; it widened a little. It was a smile.

“Thank you, class. Thank you very much, from both of us.”

I sat back with relief. I hoped they would be happy. I hoped that they would get a nice apartment with big sunny windows and that they would not be lonely anymore. A new life, together and in love, and now the bell rang, and Mario's burial would be over, the people would be walking away from his grave, leaving it to silence. Poor little Mario, not to have enjoyed this day: the church with its tolling bells, the priests praying in their fancy robes, the long line of cars driving through town, the bright flowers massed around the grave, and so many people standing there together, just for him, taking him seriously, the way he liked. How he would have been crazy with excitement, how his little squint eyes would have blazed with pleasure. But his eyes were closed, deep in the earth, and I walked down the hall to my next class, thinking both of Mario's closed eyes and of the sun streaming through the newlyweds' windows.

At noon Dumb Donny came over as I was getting my lunch from my locker. He banged the locker door against the wall.

“Want to come to the noon dance with me?”

“What for?” I asked, taken by surprise.

“Do you or don't you?”

“No.”

He shrugged, popped his bubble gum, and sauntered off. He had a new gangling way of walking. He also had pimples on his chin and a pronounced Adam's apple, but you couldn't deny that he was good-looking with his lean new face and his hair combed back from his forehead in thick overlapping layers like gold leaf, the green tint gone. The green had faded from my hair too, and it hung a graceful inch or more below my ears. I wouldn't really have minded showing up at the dance except that I didn't feel like it, because of Mario.

I ate in the auditorium, watching poor Mr. Kerr conducting “Anchors Aweigh.” Afterward I put on my coat and walked around outside in the fog. Dumb Donny came up to me again.

“You want to go to the show Saturday night?”

Again I was taken by surprise. “What for?” I said again.

“What for?” He looked frustrated. “To see the show!” He snapped his gum again, glaring at me. But it was a great moment anyway, now that it had sunk in. If I had kept a diary, I would have put down in capitals: “ASKED FOR FIRST DATE TODAY.”

“What's playing?” I said, walking on.

“I don't know yet.”

“Well I don't want to see something I might not want to see.”

He gave his knuckles a nasty crack. It was a habit left over from his short, goofy days.

“You're not exactly Miss Charm of 1944.”

“I don't care.” And I didn't care about going to the show either. I just liked being asked. “I'm too busy for movies anyway. I'm studying a lot.”

“I know. You're turning into a real drip.”

“Thank you.”

We walked along in unfriendly silence.

“May I ask why you would want to invite a drip to the movies?”

“I don't know, it's my big heart—treat a drip to the movies.”

“You give me a pain.”

“You look like a pain.”

“I'm depressed, if it's any of your business.”

“Tell me. I've got this big heart.”

I shook my head.

We walked in among the pepper trees where, dimly, in the fog, you could see the lurking figures of noon smokers. Dumb Donny fished up a bent, old-looking cigarette and a kitchen match from his shirt pocket. With a smart crack of his thumbnail, he ignited the match. Taking a puff, he handed the cigarette to me. From the gym you could hear the song they were dancing to, “When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World.”

“What do you think of Miss Petain?” Dumb Donny asked.

“I think it's nice.” I took a puff; I still didn't do it right. “But I don't want to get married myself.”

“I don't either. Marriage breeds overpopulation.”

I handed the cigarette back. “Tell me about that theory you mentioned in class, Malthus's theory.”

“It's simple. We're all war meat, every twenty-five years.”

War meat. It was an ugly term.

“At least we've got twenty-five years,” I said with a bitter smile, listening to the song from the gym.

He was silent, taking a deep drag and exhaling slowly. “People are stupid. There's a quotation about it: with stupidity, the gods themselves battle in vain. That's the tragedy of life.”

It was something Helen Maria herself might have said. Dumb Donny Woodall, of all people, a thinker. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. Flicking the cigarette to the ground, he stepped on it and grabbed my hand. “Come on, peaches, let's scram!”

It was Mr. Lewis coming through the trees, patrolling.

“You can let go of my hand now,” I said when we had hurried away to safety.

“You know what your hand feels like?”

“No, and I don't want to know.” He was feeling my calluses. I pulled my fingers free. “When do you think we'll cross the Rhine?”

He snapped to attention. “Pretty quick now, sir.”

“I'm being serious.”

“Serious? I'd say another week.”

“Really? I'd say about another month.”

“We'll be in Berlin in a month.”

“There could be another Arnhem.”

“Not a chance. That was their last stand. Plus it's winter now, they haven't got what it takes for winter fighting.”

“What does it take? Just some snowshoes.”

“Snowshoes!” He laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“You need more than snowshoes, for God's sake. Look what happened at Stalingrad. Cold is
murder.”

“I know all about it.” The vast plain of white, arms sticking up like
iron. “They were cut off at Stalingrad. They're not cut off here. They can get supplies; all they need extra is snowshoes.”

“They haven't
got
supplies.”

“How do we know? We don't know anything. We didn't know about the V-2 rockets, did we? They could have all sorts of things up their sleeves.”

“Listen, peaches, by now they don't even have sleeves.”

“Don't call me peaches. Anyway, you just go by what you read in the newspapers.”

“I don't either. I come to my own conclusions.”

“Based on what? The papers.”

“What about you? I guess you've got a direct line to von Rundstedt? Is he the one who told you about snowshoes?”

“I'm just skeptical, that's all.”

“I'll bet a dime. We cross the Rhine in a week. The war's over in a month.”

“That would be bloody money if I won. I wouldn't do it.”

“What's bloody money?”

“I don't know. But I wouldn't do it.”

We came around the corner of the main building, and Dumb Donny hurried to the door and opened it wide, bowing with a great flourish. “Welcome to the halls of poison ivy!” And he grabbed my hand again. “You know what your hand feels like? A dumpling.”

“Really?”

I left it in his for a moment before grabbing it back.